


Five Stages

by schmetterling92



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-22
Updated: 2013-08-22
Packaged: 2017-12-24 07:59:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/937525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schmetterling92/pseuds/schmetterling92
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is no mystery to solve, only a dead father. Established Joan/Sherlock relationship</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Stages

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own Elementary. Criticism welcome. This is my first foray into Elementary fanfiction and a while since I've written fanfic. This is unbetaed so all mistakes are my own.

“Watson?”  
“Mhh” Watson murmurs, not quite aware of what was going on.  
“Joan, can you get up?” Sherlock asks a bit louder.  
At this she sets herself up quickly, the tone in his voice was unmistakable. It was too soft and apologetic for this to be good news.  
“What’s wrong Sherlock,” she responds as she turns on the light she has next to her bed for these early morning wake-ups courtesy of Sherlock. The light flickers, then turns bright. She knows what it is when she looks up into his eyes. His father had been sick for some time now, this much he had let her on to. He kept the details from her, knowing her doctor self would know all the details and the detective side would know how long he had. But this much she knows now, dad was dead.  
“When?” She inquires.  
“A few hours ago, my brother just called”  
“Do you want me to tell Gregson?”  
“Please” she knows she should force the issue; tell him to tell Gregson, Bell, Alfredo, and Ms. Hudson. But the pleading in his voice makes her decide otherwise. She’ll still force him to talk to Alfredo, but she’ll do the news breaking for now.  
“What else can I do?”  
“I don’t know” with that he leaves her to make the phone calls.

Denial

Ms. Hudson stops by sometime around noon with a casserole and teary eyes. Watson knows it’s taking every thing out of Sherlock to accept her hug and condolences. He unloads so much on Watson. He knows she’ll understand his complex and complicated feelings about all of this, know the best thing to do even if he doesn’t like it. 

They heat up the casserole after Ms. Hudson leaves. Joan didn’t realize how good of a cook she was; maybe she could give Joan some tips. They really should start to eat something other than take-out and sandwiches. Watson puts down her fork and looks up at Sherlock.  
“When’s the funeral? I want to book us plane tickets as soon as possible.”  
“I’m not going”  
“Yes, you are”  
“What makes you think you’re going?”  
She just looks at him in response. There really was never any question about her going or not and he knows it.  
“In two days”  
“So we’ll need to leave tonight”  
“It appears so.”  
She books them two tickets leaving from JFK and goes up stairs to pack, if only to give Sherlock the space he needs without seeming like she’s imposing it on him.

Alfredo takes him on a drive. When he returns, he says nothing and Alfredo only shrugs his shoulders and makes Sherlock promise to call if anything comes up. Joan shoots him an apologetic smile.

Joan fears a relapse now. He doesn’t have drugs to fall back on like with Irene (or Moriarty or whatever her name is). Up till now, she hadn’t realized how much Ms. Hudson knew about his “difficulties” until she texts her while she and Sherlock are in a taxi to JFK.   
Empty out the minibar is all it says. 

JFK is relatively quiet when they arrive. 

Joan drifts to sleep about an hour into the flight, exhausted by the day’s events. Sherlock seems to have calmed himself since they got on and she can’t fight the sleep that comes over her anymore. She floats to the surface when Sherlock attempts to buckle her seat belt that she had undone during the flight.  
“What’s going on?” her voice is still laden with sleep.  
“We’re landing”

If JFK was quiet, Heathrow is anything but. The noise and crowds overwhelm Watson and she is reminded of how not British she is and how British Sherlock is. He blends in easily but she stands out. His usually distinctive voice becomes lost in the cacophony of people with accents just like his. She wonders if he feels like this in New York ever, standing out from the crowd always, even when he isn’t trying. The language and the culture are close but skewed as if looking through a lens. Sherlock reaches for hand and guides her to the taxi stand.

After they check into the hotel room (and after Joan has disposed of the mini bar) they order room service. Sherlock is uncharacteristically quiet but Joan doesn’t push it. She lets him turn on the TV as they lay in bed. She falls asleep to him telling her about the BBC’s history. She feels like he is telling her something important, about his childhood, about his dad. Sometime around midnight he turns down the volume and grips her side, buries his head into the back of her head, tangling her hair. She swears she feels a lone tear against her bare shoulder, but says nothing and doesn’t bring it up the next day.

Sherlock wakes up before her, ever the insomniac. The hotel has breakfast in the lobby and she’s starving. They hadn’t really discussed what they were going to do till 3, when they would have to get ready for the funeral.   
“Sherlock” he turns around to look at her and stops pacing  
“Can we get dressed and get something to eat? I’m starving”  
“Yeah, okay” They shower and change. As they get into the elevator, he holds out his arm and she takes it. Under normal circumstances, this would be a romantic gesture. Instead, it is Sherlock asking for physical comfort. She knows that in part this is for her, so that she can know he is there and trying to work through this. It is his way of asking for help, without actually saying he fears a relapse. It worries her, usually he doesn’t require nor want this much touchy feely stuff but it is what she gets from him. If she wanted a vocal, at ease with touch partner, she wouldn’t be with Sherlock.  
Over breakfast, they discuss their plans for the day.  
“We’ll have to be back here by three to get ready for the service. I was wondering if there was anything you wanted to do while we were in your old stomping grounds”  
“This is hardly a vacation Watson. And haven’t you already been to London?”  
“Actually, no. I was just thinking that maybe visiting some friends or favorite places could be comforting”  
“You do realize this is where my “troubles” happened right? I don’t have any friends left and this city has been spoiled by Moriarty”  
“I do realize Sherlock. I was thinking about visiting places from your childhood, maybe somewhere you have good memories with your father at?”  
“I don’t have any good memories with my dad”  
“I doubt that”  
“You know I wouldn’t lie to you”  
“Maybe you’re just choosing to not remember the good parts,” Sherlock just grumbles in response.  
“If you won’t choose a place, I propose we visit the Tate, see some of the paintings we returned from the Chevalier” Jon knows she’s piqued his interest.  
“That is an agreeable idea. I guess your former sober-companion self is telling you that staying me staying in our hotel room ruminating would be a bad idea”  
“So you’ll take me”  
“Yes” he says mouth full of muffin

The Tate is more massive than she imagined, room after room. They share a knowing smile when they get to the Hooper that Watson had spotted during their Leviathan investigation all those years ago.

When they return to the hotel room, Watson puts on a conservative black dress and Sherlock dawns a black suit. Watson helps him with his tie and Sherlock zips up her dress.  
“Ready?” she inquires.  
“Ready” he responses.

The ceremony is uneventful and as boring as Sherlock told her it would be.   
He grips her hand tight at one point. After the initial surprise, she grips back hard and continues griping the whole way through. He doesn’t speak to Mycroft and says only pleasantries to his father’s friends during the cocktail hour. Joan steers him cleverly away from any alcohol. She lets people think they are some kind of couple because it makes today easier for everyone if she does.

Anger

In the taxi on the way back to the hotel, Sherlock looks as if he is about to cry, questioning if that would be appropriate for a forgotten angry son to cry at his dad’s death. Joan tells the cabbie to let them off near a park instead of the hotel and gives Sherlock a look that says “I know what I am doing and it is what you need right now.”

 

The park doesn’t remind her of Central Park at all. After a bit of pacing, Sherlock takes a seat beside Joan.  
“There is no right way to mourn Sherlock”  
“Yes there is” he spits out angrily, tears threatening to push through the steely gaze he’s had since he woke her two days ago.  
“Then tell me, I’ve wanted to know the secret right way my whole life”  
“Only since your patient died”  
“This isn’t about me”  
“I know, I’m sorry. That…that was uncalled for.   
She doesn’t know what to say. It pains her to see him in this much pain again. It reminds her of the time before they knew the truth about Irene. How desperate she felt to fix everything. Even then, the feelings were less complicated. Someone he loved was killed, he wanted revenge. Now, it there was now mystery to solve just a dead father. There really wasn’t anything right to say, so she hugs him.  
He freezes of course but she doesn’t stop even though she can feel the eyes of little children and their caretakers on them, feel their judgments and assumptions of what was going on here.  
It’s then that he relaxes and cries and cries.   
“It’s okay” she murmurs to him over and over again “let it out, I’m not going anywhere.”  
They stay like this for a few minutes till he quiets and she slumps unto his shoulders, both of them feeling the weight and exhaustion of the past few days. They sit there and stay on the bench even when it starts to rain and all the children and their nannies go away.

Bargaining

They visit the gravesite before they go to the airport.  
“There’s no point in the roses, Watson”  
“It might help you let go”  
“It’s not like he knows. They’ll die. He’ll never know we even brought them”  
“They’re not for your father; they’re for you”  
Flowers for forgiveness, she thinks. But who’s doing the forgiving? Who’s on the receiving end?  
She glances over to the grave to the left. It has the name Sarah Holmes inscribed on the stone.  
“Is this your mother’s grave?”  
“Yes, a bit morbid don’t you think? Having your grave site already picked out before your even old?” Joan ignores the rouse.  
“February 26th. Is that what the tattoo on your back is for?”  
“Yes I got it in a fit of unusual sentimentality about a year after her death”  
They leave when a typical London drizzle moves in.

Depression

The flight back causes Sherlock more distress on the way back to New York. He’s silently staring out the window when Joan grabs his hand turns it over and laces her fingers with his.  
“I love you, you know? No matter what, no matter how you feel about this.”  
Sherlock squeezes her hand. “I know, I love you too, no matter what” His statement surprises her momentarily; he usually isn’t so vocal about his feelings for her.   
A tear starts to slide down his faces but he wipes it away not wanting to alert the whole plane to his pain.  
“I just keep thinking about what…what I would do if it was you”  
“Oh Sherlock”  
“Not now Joan, I don’t want your pity, I don’t want anyone’s pity”  
Watson doesn’t acknowledge that with a response, just squeezes his hand tight. He squeezes back even tighter and doesn’t let go the whole flight.

The next few months try Joan’s patience more than living with Sherlock has in a while. He’s moody and grumpy, disturbs her sleep when he rolls around all through the night but denies having nightmares. They both know that she knows he is lying of course. She encourages him to see a therapist, to work through the depression. He refuses. Eventually it gets to the point that Gregson pulls her aside after one of his tantrums at a crime scene. Gregson usually is the picture of patience with Sherlock’s tantrums. But it’s been months of this and even his patience is wearing thin. His annoyance only vaguely masks his concern. She promises him that Sherlock is just going through a rough patch, that he just needs some more time to grieve.

A week later Joan gives him an ultimatum.  
“You have to start running with me, every morning. Exercise has been shown to help with depression and sleep disturbances. And you will eat three meals a day. If you can’t properly nourish yourself, I will do the cooking” Sherlock had lost a considerable amount of weight. The light in his eyes had dimmed. He had pushed the food, brought by their “family,” for the month in which they came in nonstop. He didn’t even try the food Joan’s mom cooked for him. After that he barely touched the take-out he used to love and refused the pb and j sandwiches Joan pushed on him. The cereal he once dowered, now went soggy in the bowls she placed in front of him.  
“Watson, you know I don’t exercise” She ignores him  
“If you don’t accept these terms, we will no longer be sharing a bed until you either abide by the terms or start to see a therapist” Sherlock looks crestfallen at this. Ever since his admission on the plane, he had spent every night sleeping with her, curled against her. Before their trip to London, he would spend only a few nights a week sharing a bed with her and usually he’d wake up and start to move around before she was ready to get up. It was a part of their relationship she agreed to. He would come back to bed when he was ready and she would let him go when he could no longer stay still. But all of that had changed recently. She wanted her partner back.  
“Okay” he whispers  
“Good”

The first run is difficult. Sherlock is out of shape and undernourished. He gets better and better over the next few months and his sleep improves. At first, Watson has to almost spoon-feed him. She had been taking cooking lessons from Ms. Hudson and is getting quite good if she may say so herself. He starts to put on weight after she gets tips from a dietician friend at the hospital about how she helps cancer patients keep up nutrition during chemo. Slowly his eyes brighten. He picks up the violin again plays for her, expresses his emotions through his music (though he would never admit to it). He picks locks, makes inappropriate jokes and hangs out with Alfredo willingly. He gets back to being Sherlock, to being her partner.

Acceptance

The next time they visit in London, it’s to help and old “colleague” of Sherlock’s. They are walking past a flower shop when Sherlock grabs Joan’s hand.   
“My father liked daises if you can believe that” Joan knows this fact is important. It’s been a year since his father died.  
“He did?”  
“Yeah, we went on these vacations to the countryside. He used to pick them for my mother but I think he loved them just as much, if not more than her”  
“Why don’t we get some, we can visit his grave later.”  
“Yeah, I’d like that”  
A smile crosses his face, slight and contemplative. It’s the best thing she’s seen in a year.


End file.
